


La Guerre Apres La Guerre

by sunflowerseedsandscience



Series: The Pequod Universe [4]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 13:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16096550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerseedsandscience/pseuds/sunflowerseedsandscience
Summary: History threatens to repeat itself when William Scully comes home from Vietnam bearing wounds both inside and out.





	La Guerre Apres La Guerre

WASHINGTON, D.C.  
NOVEMBER 1969

Mulder is not looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner this year. Not at all.

It’s not because they’re celebrating at his brother-in-law’s house, though an evening with Bill Scully is an awful enough prospect all by itself.

It’s not because of the potential awkwardness of having his mother present, either. Since emigrating to Massachusetts following her husband’s death, Mulder’s mother has spent a handful of holidays with the Scully family, and while it’s always at least a little uncomfortable, Tina is far too well-bred to say anything overly confrontational, and Maggie Scully is too kind and gracious to ever be anything but welcoming.

It’s not even because Claire’s fiancé, Paul, is at sea and won’t be home until March at the earliest, though that’s a bit nearer to the mark. Claire, at least, has had the benefit of regular letters from the young man she’s been engaged to for nearly a year, and while being apart from him has been difficult for her, Paul isn’t anywhere near combat at the moment. That could change, of course, but for the time being, Paul is about as safe as any American military man can be during a time of war.

The same cannot be said for William Mulder.

It had been bad enough when William had been drafted, worse still when he had come home from boot camp to tell Mulder and Scully that he was being sent to Vietnam, into combat. For the first year, his letters had arrived like clockwork, sparse in detail but comforting in their regularity. As the conflict around William had intensified, his letters had grown fewer, the times between them longer… but still, the letters had come, monthly confirmations that their son was still alive and unhurt, and that knowledge had made things slightly easier to bear.

But Mulder and Scully have not had a letter from William in four months.

The military classified their son as “missing in action” in September, and the months since then have been some of the most difficult Mulder and Scully have ever passed. They don’t talk about it often- what is there to say, really?- but their absent son haunts the edges of every conversation, never out of their thoughts. Scully copes with it the same way she’s always coped with stress, with uncertainty, with pain: by throwing herself into her work, exhausting herself so thoroughly every day that when she lies down beside Mulder at night, she’s too tired to lie awake thinking about William. Claire deals with Paul’s absence in the same way. Between the collective anxieties of mother and daughter, the Cafe Pequod has never been so clean or well-stocked.

Mulder has found it considerably more difficult to escape from his worries. He, too, has been burying himself in his work, but it’s done nothing to put his fears for William out of his mind. In fact, it’s had the opposite effect, for obvious reasons.

The majority of Mulder’s patients at his practice, these days, are young men, most of them his son’s age, most of them sent to him quietly by worried mothers and wives. Their symptoms are similar: irritability, insomnia, hostility, a loss of interest in the things they’ve always loved before, nightmares, paranoia, isolation, and agitation, often escalating to violence. They come from a variety of family backgrounds, but they all have one thing in common, aside from their symptoms: all of them are recently returned from active duty in Vietnam.

Most of the men are quiet at the beginning of their therapy, unwilling to open up, ashamed to admit that they’ve allowed the horrors of war to follow them home. To a man, they believe that they are alone in their difficulties, that their brothers-in-arms have all been able to come home and step right back into civilian life, that they are somehow weak for not being able to pick right up where they had left off when they were drafted. Their sense of shame is acute, but once Mulder has revealed to them just how many of his patients are combat veterans, most of them are more willing to open up.

It’s a blessing for them.

For Mulder, it’s a curse.

Because of his patients, Mulder has a far clearer idea than he’d perhaps like of the sorts of dangers William has been facing. For the first time since his own days as a soldier, his nightmares have begun to feature not snow-covered fields full of soldiers or tanks rolling through cobblestone streets, but dense, humid jungles, land mines exploding underfoot, enemy snipers hiding in the trees, helicopters filling the air around him with bullets and great gouts of flame. The battles he survived years ago sound almost tidy in comparison to the chaos and carnage described by the men who occupy his office every day.

Mulder hasn’t shared anything his patients have told him with Scully or with Claire, and not just because of doctor-patient confidentiality. When he first started seeing patients who had just returned from Vietnam, he’d written William a letter, asking his son if the reality was anywhere near as terrible as the stories he was hearing. William had responded with just two lines.

“They’re worse. Promise you won’t tell Mom or Claire.”

And Mulder hasn’t, not yet. They’re both scared and worried enough, and he’d rather not add to that, if he can avoid it.

————-

The drive to Annapolis is mostly silent, William’s absence weighing heavy on everyone’s hearts. This is worse than last year, the first Thanksgiving without him, because at least then, they were hearing from him regularly and knew he was all right. This year, the question on everyone’s mind is whether William will ever make this drive with them again. Mulder thinks back to two years ago, William sitting in the backseat with Claire, tormenting her with endless questions about the young man she was seeing, teasing her in a way that suggested he had incriminating information that, with the proper motivation, he just might not release to their parents (as though Scully hadn’t already heard Paul sneaking down the back staircase at least two nights that week alone).

In truth, both Mulder and Scully like Paul very much, and they had been thrilled when he and Claire had announced their engagement. Paul had been a student at Georgetown, the latest in a long line of college students working at the Cafe Pequod as a part-time dishwasher, and he and Claire had fallen hard for each other during the time she spent waiting tables between her medical school classes. They had said nothing at first- Claire is every bit as private as her mother had always been- and Mulder had only found out about it when he’d stumbled on the two of them standing side-by-side at the sink in the cafe’s kitchen, washing dishes together after closing. Claire had been drying the dishes as Paul finished washing them, and as Mulder watched, Paul had leaned over and given Claire a tender kiss, making her blush and giggle. 

Mulder had backed out of the kitchen quietly, before they knew he was there, and had been hit with such a powerful wave of nostalgia, remembering standing over a similar sink with Scully nearly twenty-five years before, flirting, stealing kisses, and looking forward to the moment when the day’s work was done and she would turn her attention to him. Paul looks at Claire much the same way that Mulder has always looked at Scully, and he knows his daughter will be marrying a good man who loves her dearly.

Without William, and without Paul, Thanksgiving Day feels more like a trial to be survived than an actual holiday. Add in a full day with Bill, and Mulder is seriously considering suggesting to Scully and Claire that they just blow the whole thing off, drive to the beach, and just spend the whole day relaxing. But Scully wouldn’t agree, even if she’s not looking forward to it, either. Since her mother decided, four years ago, to move in with Bill and his wife Tara, Scully hasn’t seen as much of her as she would like. Tara doesn’t drive, Maggie never learned, and Bill is often away at sea, so the only time Scully can visit her mother is in her rare off hours when she’s not needed at either the clinic or the cafe.

At the moment, Scully is gazing listlessly out the window, dark circles standing out under her eyes in spite of her best efforts to cover them with makeup. She had been unable to sleep much last night, even though she’d kept busy all afternoon baking far too many pies to take to Bill’s today, and nothing Mulder had said or done had been able to soothe her. He reaches out now, covering her hand with his, and she startles. She turns to him, and Mulder can make out just the barest film of tears in her eyes. Not wanting to draw Claire’s attention, he says nothing. Instead, he takes her hand in his and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips gently to her fingers. She smiles tremulously at him and squeezes his hand, and he knows that while she might be hurting, she’ll be okay. She just wants to get through today and go home again.

They’ve always been pretty good at nonverbal communication, but after nearly twenty-six years together, more often than not, speech is entirely optional.

By the time they arrive at Bill’s house, everyone else is already there, including Mulder’s mother. He cringes to think of Tina sitting inside, waiting for him, making awkward small talk with Maggie and ignoring Bill’s hostile glares.

When they get inside, however, they find Tina in the kitchen with Maggie and Tara, helping to prepare side dishes and talking animatedly. Bill does glare a bit when Claire greets her grandmother in German, but his face relaxes as soon as they switch to English.

“Fox, darling,” says Tina, a bit stiffly, kissing Mulder’s cheek. “How are you?”

“I’m well, Mother,” he says. “How was your drive down?”

“Oh, it was fine,” she says, and turns to Scully. “Dana, it’s lovely to see you.” She kisses Scully’s cheek.

“You too, Tina,” Scully says. A cautious thaw has taken place between mother- and daughter-in-law over the years, though Mulder suspects they’ll never be close. No matter how much Tina might love Claire now, Mulder knows Scully will never forget that, the first time Tina ever referred to their child, it had been to call her a bastard. “How is Boston treating you?”

“Oh, very well,” Tina says. “I was skeptical at first, when my sister suggested I move in with her, but it’s been lovely, just lovely. You and Fox really ought to visit sometime.” Scully smiles tightly.

“That would be nice, Tina, but it’s so hard for us to get away,” she says.

“Yes, you’re both so busy all the time,” Tina agrees. “Still, you’re welcome whenever you’d like.” She grows serious and lays a hand on Scully’s shoulder- which, to her credit, she doesn’t shrug off, though Mulder can tell she’s like to. “Has there been any word? Anything at all?” Scully swallows, her jaw clenched tightly, and shakes her head.

“Fox, dear,” calls Maggie from over by the oven, “why don’t you go on and relax in the living room? Bill and Matthew just took the dogs for a walk, they’ll be back soon. We’ve got it under control in here.”

With Scully and Claire helping out in the kitchen, Mulder sinks down onto a sofa in the otherwise-empty living room. A small stack of newspapers and magazines sit on the end of the coffee table nearest him. The one on top is the latest issue of “Life” magazine, which he’s read already (really, is there anyone in the country who hasn’t?), but he still picks it up and leafs through it. He and Scully had been shocked by the images from the horror at My Lai that had emerged over the past week… possibly more appalled than many of their friends and neighbors, because they’ve seen things like this before, and until now, had believed- naively, it seems- that they’d left such things behind them forever.

Don’t kid yourself, he thinks, cynically. Men like that exist the world over. And the men who follow them? He doesn’t have an answer for that. He knows, from experience, that under the right circumstances, ordinary men can be convinced- or coerced- to do unimaginably terrible things. Many of the men in his unit had always struck him as good men, decent men… and yet, when Spender had given the order, they had not hesitated to pile women and children into the church, had not hesitated to set it on fire, had even stood waiting with machine guns trained on the burning building, ready to shoot survivors.

The article states that the events of My Lai occurred in March of 1968. William, Mulder thinks, had been in combat for only a month at that point. Mulder doesn’t know much about where his son has travelled or where he’s fought, but he does know he was, at least initially, part of a helicopter crew. The article mentions that most of the men responsible had been part of an infantry company… Mulder hopes devoutly that William was not involved at all.

“Can you believe they printed that?” Mulder is startled out of his reverie by Bill Scully entering the living room, his twenty-year-old son, Matthew, behind him. Both are on leave from the Navy for Thanksgiving. “I’m thinking about canceling our subscription. It’s a total outrage.” Mulder raises his eyebrows.

“That it happened? Or that they printed it?”

“That they printed it, of course,” says Bill. “Without any context at all to help the public understand.”

“What context could possibly make people understand something like this, Bill?” Mulder asks.

“You know what I mean,” says Bill. “Most of the people who read that article have never served in the military. They have no idea how it is.”

“I served in the military, Bill,” says Mulder. He doesn’t like where this conversation is going. “And I’m having a hard time excusing any of this, much less understanding it. What, exactly, do you think the public needs to know to put this in ‘context?’”

“Those guys, they were just obeying orders,” says Bill. “That’s what you do in the military: you obey orders. You don’t stop to ask if it’s the right thing to do or not.”

“That,” comes a supremely cold voice from the kitchen doorway, “is not an attitude I will ever tolerate from one of my children, William Scully.” The harshness is completely unexpected, coming from the normally sweet and gentle Maggie Scully. “That attitude is exactly what led to my home being burned and my neighbors being murdered.”

“Mom-”

“And I don’t want to hear that it was a totally different situation, William, because it wasn’t. And I certainly don’t want to hear that soldiers can’t disobey their commanders if their orders are abhorrent… because Fox did, and his captain did, and because of that, your sister is still alive today.” Bill doesn’t know how to argue with this, and in any case he’s not going to further upset his mother, so he settles for glaring at Mulder instead, as though his brother-in-law is to blame for the massacre at My Lai being reported to the general public.

This is going to be a very long Thanksgiving.

———–

It’s raining by the time their car pulls onto their street in Georgetown. Mulder finds parking reasonably close and pulls out two umbrellas- one for Claire, and one for him to share with Scully (though their height difference guarantees he’s going to get soaked). The three of them make their way down the sidewalk, all of them tired, all of them subdued. The rest of Thanksgiving Day had been exactly as uncomfortable as Mulder had feared, with Bill making sniping remarks whenever the opportunity presented itself, and Maggie getting more and more angry until finally, she’d left the table. Tara had chastised Bill, who had gone after his mother to apologize. Maggie had returned to the table, but the evening had never really recovered, and Mulder and Scully had made their excuses and left rather early.

As they’re approaching the Cafe Pequod, Scully suddenly freezes in her tracks. Mulder takes another step without her and ends up drenched. Her hand grips his arm tightly. Looking down at his wife, Mulder sees her gaze fixed on the front door of the cafe, her eyes wide, her face white. He follows her gaze… and sees the slumped form of a man sitting on the front stoop of the cafe, in the rain, a military duffel bag by his side. Mulder feels his heart shuddering to a stop in his chest. Could it be?

But the illusion is shattered as the man stands up. He’s tall, too tall. From behind them, Claire gasps.

“Paul!!” Their daughter shoves past them and runs to her fiancé, throwing her umbrella to the side and launching herself into his arms. Paul lifts her up and spins her around, both of them laughing euphorically, and suddenly, Thanksgiving Day doesn’t seem so terrible after all.

Hours later, Claire is upstairs in the top floor apartment she took over when she started medical school, Maggie having vacated it not long before to move in with Bill. Paul is with her, something Mulder would have liked to have forbidden, but a well-timed glare from Scully had shut him up before he could say anything. Claire is an adult, she pays her own rent (though her parents have told her repeatedly she doesn’t need to), and she hasn’t seen Paul in a long time. So, although it grates on his fatherly instincts, he and Scully have bidden Claire and Paul goodnight and are ensconced in their own second-floor apartment.

Scully is quiet, her eyes downcast, and she excuses herself to take a bath. Mulder, having some inkling of what’s on her mind- he’s feeling it, as well- brews her a cup of chamomile tea and brings it to her in the bathroom. Relaxing in a fragrant tub full of bubbles, Scully smiles up at him gratefully as she accepts the steaming mug.

“Thank you,” she says, as Mulder settles himself on the floor next to the bathtub, resting his arms on the side. “How did you know I needed this?”

“I could see it on your face,” he says. For a while, they say nothing. She drinks her tea, and he watches her, his head pillowed on his arms. “Anything you want to talk about?” She doesn’t say anything at first, and he doesn’t push. He knows she’s not refusing to answer; she’s merely marshaling her thoughts, deciding how to tell him what’s bothering her.

“I feel like a terrible person,” she says, finally. He frowns.

“Why?”

“Because, Mulder… I was disappointed. I was upset that it was Paul waiting on our stoop, and not William.” She looks up at him, her eyes wet. “What kind of monster does that make me, that I was unhappy about something that gave my daughter so much joy?” She sighs and sets the nearly-empty mug of tea down on the ledge behind the tub. “I’m happy he’s home. I really am. But… given the choice….”

“You’d rather it was William who was home, and Paul still out at sea,” says Mulder. She nods miserably. “That doesn’t make you a monster, Scully. It makes you a mother. No,” he corrects himself, “it makes you a parent, because I felt the exact same thing.” Scully looks up at him.

“Really?” He nods. Scully smiles weakly. “I feel a little less guilty, then.”

“At least we’re guilty together,” he says, and this gets him a genuine grin. It fades quickly, though.

“As terrible as it sounds, Mulder, sometimes I wish I could just stop thinking about it for a little while,” she says. “From the moment I wake up until the moment I go to sleep, all I’m thinking about is William. It’s like there’s no escape, no matter how hard I work, no matter how much I try to distract myself. I feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes.” Her voice catches, and the tears in her eyes begin to spill down her cheeks. “I just want to take my mind off of it… just for a little while. Does that make me a bad mother?”

“No, Scully,” Mulder reassures her. “I feel the same way sometimes.” Scully reaches out and takes his hand, pulling it towards herself.

“Make me forget, Mulder,” she pleads. “Just for a few minutes. Please.”

Rolling his sleeve up and reaching into the bubbly water, into her, Mulder is only too happy to oblige.

————-

On Monday morning, Mulder is on his third patient of the day when there’s a knock on his office door. He’s immediately nervous; his staff knows never to interrupt him during a session, unless it’s an emergency. His patient, a woman of forty-two years who’s having difficulty coping with her husband’s untimely death, stops talking in the middle of a sentence.

“Come in,” he calls. The door opens to admit Mulder’s secretary, Anna.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Mulder,” she says, “but your daughter is here and she says it’s very urgent.” His heart hammering in his chest, Mulder stands as Claire, her face white, appears behind Anna.

“We got a letter in the mail this morning,” Claire says. “It’s from the Naval hospital at Annapolis. William arrived there last week.” Mulder has forgotten how to breathe. He stands, leaning heavily on his chair for support.

“He’s alive?” Claire nods.

“He’s wounded,” she says, “but he was well enough to write us. Mom is waiting to drive there the moment you get home.”

Mulder is halfway out of the room before he’s even conscious that his feet are moving. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kaufmann, but I need to go,” he says to his patient. “Anna, cancel the rest of my appointments for today. Reschedule them for next week.” He takes Claire’s arm and is out the door of his office without waiting for a reply, all but running down the hallway, down the stairs, racing towards his son.

—————-

Mulder tries to keep pace with Scully as she races through the hospital, barely stopping long enough to ask staff members where they need to go. When they finally reach the correct ward, she doesn’t pause, not even for a second… but Claire hangs back, and it doesn’t take much for Mulder to figure out why. While Scully has had a good deal of experience treating men injured in battle during her time with the Resistance, Claire has not even finished medical school yet, and she’s certainly never seen these types of injuries before. The thought of her brother being one of these men- most of them swathed in thick bandages, some covered in gruesome burns, many of them missing limbs- is overwhelming. Mulder doubles back to where she hesitates in the doorway of the ward and puts a gentle arm around her.

“Come on,” he says, guiding her down the aisle between the rows of beds. “He’s waiting for us.” In truth, he’s every bit as terrified as his daughter… but Will is here, he’s alive, and that’s the important thing, the thing he needs to focus on before anything else.

He hears Scully’s wail before he reaches the bed, and while Claire freezes in terror beside him, Mulder recognizes his wife’s keening cries for what they are: relief. She had made the same sounds on the night John Byers had snuck into the kitchen of her cafe to tell her that Maggie Scully was safe, and she’d cried like this in London, on the day she and her mother had finally been reunited.

Scully is sitting on the side of Will’s bed, and Mulder can’t see his son at all at first because his mother is crushing him to her chest. But from what he can see, William is a good deal better off than many of the soldiers lying around him. Mulder can see the outline of both of his legs under the blankets, and he’s holding his mother with both arms. And when Scully finally loosens her hold, and Will looks up at him, his face is unscathed. Mulder’s eyes flood with tears as he sinks down onto the other side of Will’s bed, embracing his son and his wife at the same time. With one arm he reaches out and seizes Claire, drawing her down with them, the entire family reunited at last.

No words are needed.

When they at last break apart, the first thing Scully does is, predictably, seize William’s chart from the foot of his bed. Mulder, however, takes the more direct approach.

“What happened?” he asks Will. In answer, his son draws his unbuttoned shirt to the side, exposing bandages around his midsection.

“Shot,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Twice. Got lucky, though. The doctors said-”

“The bullets missed any major organs,” cuts in Scully, reading from the chart. “Clean entry and exit wounds, minimal blood loss….” She replaces the chart at the foot of the bed and sits back down next to Will, picking at the surgical tape around his dressings to try and remove them.

“Mom, stop!” He swats her hand away.

“I just want to have a look at your stitches, Will,” she says.“

"The doctors did a good job, Mom. I promise,” he assures her. “They said I’m gonna be fine.” Scully nods, biting her lip, her eyes still full of tears. William looks to Claire. “Hey, Clarabelle,” he says, and Claire laughs weakly.

“Don’t call me that,” she says, bending down and kissing her brother’s forehead. “You know how much I hate it.”

“Why do you think I do it?” he asks her. His teasing grin is almost the same as it ever was… but Mulder can’t help noticing that his son’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He shakes it off. William is home. That’s all that’s important right now.

————-

Scully refuses to allow William to remain in the hospital a second longer than is absolutely necessary. She more or less takes up residence at his bedside and terrorizes his doctors so much that it’s barely three days before they agree to discharge him and send him home under his mother’s care. Mulder wishes he could help more, but unlike Scully, who is one doctor in a large practice, Mulder does not have anyone else to take over his patients and cover his fully-booked appointment schedule. He stops taking on any new clients, but even so, he’s not home nearly as much as he’d like to be.

From what he can see, Will is adjusting without any real trouble. He’s still confined to his bed most of the time, which, Mulder assumes, is probably the source of his agitation. Will was always very active growing up, so obviously, being stuck lying on his back is going to frustrate him.

He doesn’t have much patient for his mother’s hovering, but that’s to be expected; Scully can be a little suffocating when someone in her family is ill. Granted, Will doesn’t seem to want Claire spending too much time in his room, either, or even Mulder… but Will’s been in a hospital ward full of people for weeks, so it makes sense for him to crave some peace and quiet now.

Mulder sets up a radio in William’s room so that he can listen to his beloved football games, but William never even bothers to turn it on. Given how obsessed he’s always been with sports, and with football in particular, it’s surprising, but maybe a little understandable. It must be tough to care about a bunch of guys throwing an inflated pigskin around after spending a year and a half in terror of being shot. Mulder’s sure that by next season, William will be right back to obsessively following his favorite teams.

The fact that William doesn’t seem to be sleeping much, if at all, is a little worrisome, it’s true, but Mulder puts this down to his being stuck in bed, as well. It’s hard to get tired enough to sleep if you’re not doing anything all day long.

And of course Will’s going to have nightmares. Nobody sane can go through the horror of battle and not come away with a nightmare or two. Mulder still has them himself, occasionally. And he knows that, like him, William will have fewer and fewer nightmares as time goes by.

Yes, by and large, Mulder would have to say William is doing just fine.

—————-

“I’m worried about him,” Scully whispers in bed one night. “He’s not acting like himself at all.”

“It’s being stuck in the apartment,” Mulder reassures her. “All this isolation is enough to take a toll on anyone.”

“I’m not sure that’s it,” says Scully. “If it were the isolation, he wouldn’t be so uncomfortable whenever he has visitors. You know he actually asked me not to let Bill drive Maman and Matthew out to see him last Sunday?” Mulder snorts.

“I don’t blame him for not wanting to see Bill,” he says. Scully frowns at him. “Come on, Scully, the only thing your brother seems to want to talk about is the war. That’s got to be about the last thing Will wants to talk about right now.”

“I think maybe he needs to talk about it,” says Scully softly. “Not with Bill, certainly, but….” She rolls on her side, propping her head on her elbow. “I know it shouldn’t be you, because you can’t be truly objective… but you could recommend someone, couldn’t you?”

“You mean… you think he needs therapy?” He shakes his head. “Come on, Scully. He’s been through a lot, and it’s going to take him some time to adjust. But really, he’s doing a thousand times better than most of my patients are.”

“You’re not home as often, Mulder,” says Scully. “And I think… I think he puts on a brave face for you.” Mulder sits up.

“Are you saying my son doesn’t feel comfortable enough around me to let his guard down?”

“It’s not because of anything you’ve done, Mulder,” Scully insists, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “And he’s doing it around all of us, even around me. It’s just that… I’m around him more, so I think maybe I’m seeing through it more easily.” She sighs and nestles into his side. “You know full well that neither of our children are all that adept on saying what they feel.” He gives her a look. “And yes, I’m aware that they’ve both inherited that from me. But that also means I’m better at recognizing when they’re having problems and hiding them, Mulder.” He holds her gaze for a moment, then sighs, squeezing her close.

“Let’s see how he does once he’s not stuck in the apartment anymore, Scully,” he says at last. “This much time in bed is enough to make anyone a little crazy.”

————-

When William is finally back on his feet, Scully suggests he come downstairs and help out in the cafe. He’s thinking he might try college next fall, but that’s more than nine months away, and he needs something to fill his hours until then, and this has the added benefit of helping him save up a little money. Will is cautious about the idea, but agrees to it- with the provision that he be allowed to remain in the kitchen. He’s not the slightest bit interested in setting foot in the hectic bustle of the dining room. Since their usual dishwasher is about to head home for Christmas vacation, it seems like a good idea. Mulder figures that after a couple of weeks, Will might be ready to try busing tables or working the register… and if not, there’s always plenty of work to be done in the back. Ian and Sarah, the couple that’s taken over management of the Cafe Pequod now that Mulder and Scully are both practicing again, are on board with the idea. They’ve known William quite literally his entire life, and they’d suffered right along with Mulder and Scully during the months when nobody had known where he was.

“How’s it working out?” Mulder asks Sarah in passing, near the end of William’s first week.

“Oh, well, very well,” says Sarah… but Mulder can sense she’s holding something back.

“But…?” Sarah purses her lips.

“He’s quite withdrawn, isn’t he?” she says hesitantly. “Dana warned us that he might be a bit quieter than Ian and I remembered, but… he hardly speaks at all. Seems a bit jumpy, as well.”

“He’s still adjusting, Sarah,” says Mulder. “We have to give him time. He’s handling the work all right, though?”

“Oh, yes, no problems there,” Sarah reassures him. “Arrives on time, sets himself up at the sink, and works like a horse until we remind him to take a break or two.” She pats Mulder’s arm. “You’re probably right. He just needs a bit of time to get himself settled in.”

————

Mulder, Scully, Claire, and Paul eat lunch in the cafe on Sunday. They invite William to join them, but he declines, saying he’d rather just work instead. So they sit at their favorite table by the windows, enjoying a selection of sandwiches and pastries, and making plans for Christmas, which is only weeks away. Mulder is very much looking forward to it, now that he knows he’ll be spending it with his entire family, and that this year, William’s chair will not be empty.

Across the dining room, Ian is in the process of training a new server, and Scully is looking on anxiously. She may have ceded management of her cafe to Ian and Sarah, but that doesn’t stop her from fretting over nearly every decision they make independently of her. Luckily, Ian and Sarah are extremely patient people.

“I wish he’d train new people on slow days,” she says to Mulder. “Doesn’t it make more sense to let them get their feet wet on a Monday afternoon when there are only a few tables to worry about? Sunday lunch is one of the busiest shifts. It must be so overwhelming.”

“Ian likes to train them on busy shifts,” says Mulder. “He says that way, they’ve seen the cafe at its most hectic, and after that, they’re not afraid of anything. Sort of a baptism by fire.”

“I know, he’s explained it to me, too,” says Scully. “I just think that maybe he hasn’t considered-”

“Mom,” sighs Claire, patting her mother’s arm affectionately, “you hired Ian and Sarah to manage the place. Will you please let them manage it?” Scully narrows her eyes at her daughter. She opens her mouth to respond… but at that exact moment, the fledgeling server loses control of the tray he’s carrying, and with an almighty crash, at least a dozen dishes and coffee mugs shatter on the floor. Scully heaves a sigh and looks at her family with an expression that says, all too clearly, I told you so.

“That’s twenty dollars for new flatware,” she mutters. “I ought to take it out of Ian’s pay.” She catches sight of Mulder’s expression. “I’m not saying I will. I’m just saying I should, because if he’d only done things the way I suggested-”

“Mom,” says Claire, frowning, “Sarah’s trying to get your attention.” They look up, and sure enough, Sarah is standing in the open kitchen doorway, looking out at them, and then looking worriedly back into the kitchen. As one, the family stands, making their way through the tables and filing behind the counter.

At first glance, nothing is amiss in the kitchen. The counter is covered with dishes waiting to go out to customers, a large slab of roast beef sits on the butcher’s block, waiting to be chopped, and clean dishes are stacked on the draining board. Mulder looks to Sarah, who jerks her chin in the direction of the sink. Mulder rounds the butcher’s block, completely mystified… and then drops to his knees by his son.

William is cowering against the butcher’s block, curled in the fetal position, trembling so hard that his teeth are chattering. When Mulder reaches out to touch him, he jerks away roughly, and for a moment, there is no recognition in his son’s eyes. Mulder knows immediately what’s happened.

“It’s all right, Will,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “It was just a tray of dishes. That’s all. Just a tray that fell, out in the dining room.” Will begins to take deep, shuddering, gasping breaths. “You’re safe,” says Mulder, crooning to his son in the same voice he used when William was just a baby, when Mulder would walk up and down the hallway of their apartment, cradling his son against his chest to calm his cries and help him sleep. He cradles his adult son the same way now, wrapping his strong arms around him, wishing to God that he could protect him as he once did.

And above all, he berates himself… because the signs have been there. They’ve all been there. Mulder has just refused to see them.

—————

“I’m going to set up an appointment for you,” Mulder says, keeping his voice soft, as he sits on the edge of William’s bed. William frowns up at him.

“Mom says I’m pretty much healed,” he says. “She told me I don’t need to go back to the doctor unless I start feeling pain again, and I’m not.”

“Not that kind of doctor, Will,” Mulder says. “This is a colleague of mine. He has a practice near here, close enough for you to walk, if you want. If not, I can drive you there.”

“A colleague of yours, as in, a psychologist?” Will asks. “A shrink? Dad, no.”

“You need to talk to someone about what you’re going through, Will,” says Mulder. “And you’ll probably have an easier time talking to someone you don’t know. If you want to talk to me instead, you can, but you may feel like you can speak more freely with someone else.”

“I don’t need to, Dad,” William insists. “Nothing’s wrong. I just got a little spooked today, that’s all.”

“That’s not all,” says Mulder. “You’ve been restless and agitated since you’ve come home.”

“You would be, too, if you were stuck in your room all the time.”

“That’s what I told myself at first, too,” says Mulder. “But it hasn’t gotten better since you’ve been out and about. If anything, Will, it’s gotten worse. Your mother and I can hear you roaming all over the apartment at night, when you should be sleeping, and when you are sleeping, you’re having nightmares.”

“I was in hell for two years, Dad. What did you expect?”

“Will.” Mulder places a hand on William’s arm, but Will shrugs it off. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

“You don’t know.” William lies down on his bed, facing away from Mulder. “You can’t make me see a shrink if I don’t want to, Dad. I don’t need one. I’m fine.” In that moment, he sounds just like his mother, but Mulder has never found the similarity less endearing.

“No, I can’t make you,” he agrees. “I can’t make you want to get better, Will. You have to decide that for yourself.”

————-

Mulder and Scully are awoken from a sound sleep by a series of crashes, followed by a scream that Mulder immediately recognizes as Claire’s. They’re on their feet instantly, Mulder grabbing his pistol from the drawer of his nightstand and rushing out into the hallway ahead of Scully. He does not tell her to stay behind, because he knows she won’t listen. They race down the hallway and throw on the light in the living room, which is empty, and then run to the kitchen.

The scene before them stops them in their tracks. Scully falls against the wall with a horrified cry.

Claire, in her robe and nightgown, is cowering on the floor, her arms over her head. William stands above her, a knife from the block on the kitchen counter clutched in his hand, raised menacingly over his head. On the floor next to Claire is Scully’s sewing kit, lying on its side, spools of thread and scraps of fabric spilling out of it. Claire must have used her key to let herself into the apartment to borrow it- she often does- and William, Mulder assumes, had woken up, heard her, and gone into a panic.

Scully runs forward and throws herself on Claire, shielding her. Mulder, at the same time, grabs William from behind, squeezing his wrist until he drops the knife, which clatters to the floor. Mulder kicks it away and winds his arms around his son, pinning them to his sides. He drags him over to the wall and sinks down against it, clutching William tightly in one of the restraining holds he learned in his training. He’s learned many of these holds, but working in his quiet office, he’s never had to use any of them.

He certainly never expected to have to use one on his son.

William continues to thrash and fight, making guttural noises of rage. “Scully,” yells Mulder, “take Claire back upstairs. Have Paul call an ambulance and go outside to meet it.” Scully doesn’t hesitate to comply. She pulls Claire to her feet, and in seconds, they’re gone, the front door slamming behind them. Mulder can hear them running up the stairs to Claire’s apartment. He continues to hold William down, but his son’s fighting is finally beginning to taper off, his screams and grunts gradually giving way to sobs. Will finally goes limp in his arms, curling into a ball, his arms over his head. Mulder curls himself protectively over his son, powerless to help him, powerless to stop his own tears from falling.

————

It seems especially cruel, not having William home for Christmas this year.

He’s already missed two Christmases with the family, and that had been difficult enough. This year, William is close, so close, less than five miles away at Georgetown University Hospital… but he might as well be on the moon. Since being admitted to the psychiatric ward, William has not wanted to see anyone. Mulder is friends with several doctors on staff, and they have kept him updated on his son’s treatment.

William is not speaking to any of the doctors, except to continue to insist that he is fine. He’s explained his attack on his sister by saying he’d thought she’d been an intruder, but he has no explanation as to why he’d continued to threaten her once she’d identified herself. Beyond that, he will not speak.

Mulder can’t stop blaming himself for missing the symptoms, for refusing to see the signs, even when Scully had pointed them out to him. In spite of the never-ending parade of soldiers he’s been treating for well over a year, he’d been unable to recognize their pain in his son, had refused to let himself believe that it could happen to his baby boy. Not because he’d believed William to be stronger than all those other men, certainly. It had been denial, pure and simple. It was a thing that happened to other people, not to his family.

Two days before Christmas, one of William’s doctors calls Mulder to tell him that Will would like to see him. Not Scully, or Claire. Just Mulder. He drives to the hospital, his heart in his throat, imagining terrible things- Will in a straightjacket, Will restrained to his bed, Will in a padded room, no windows through which he can see the sun. He’s intensely relieved when he arrives and finds Will sitting in a perfectly ordinary hospital room, in an ordinary bed, completely free of restraints.

William glances up quickly as Mulder enters; then, just as quickly, he looks away. “Hey, Will,” says Mulder, trying and failing to sound casual. “I heard you were asking for me.” William nods, but says nothing. “Everyone’s really missing you at home.” Will snorts.

“Even Claire?” Mulder sits on the edge of Will’s bed, but does not try to touch him. Not yet.

“Of course she does,” he says. “She knows what’s going on, Will. Paul’s told her about some of the men he’s served with, how hard they’re finding it, with everything they’ve seen. I’ve told her about the soldiers I’ve treated, too. She knows you would never knowingly hurt her.” Will nods shortly.

“They say I should talk to you,” he mumbles. “That I should tell you… what happened. What I saw.” Will wraps his arms around his chest. “Why I can’t just leave it behind. They say it’ll help.”

“It probably will,” says Mulder. “I’ve never treated anyone who hasn’t felt at least a little better, once they’ve started talking about it. Maybe they don’t feel better right away… but eventually, it gets easier for them. It’s much better than keeping it bottled up inside, believe me. I know.” Will shakes his head harshly.

“You don’t know, Dad. You can’t imagine….” He looks out the window, refusing to meet his father’s eye. But Mulder does know. Will’s doctors have gotten enough out of him, these past few days, to understand that it’s not the fighting against other men that’s stayed with Will, that’s tormenting him now. Will has witnessed something far, far worse. He knows now that Will had ridden in a helicopter that had landed at My Lai, that his commander, Hugh Thompson, had tried to put a stop to the massacre. He decides to try a different tack.

“Have I ever told you about the little girl I saw killed?” Mulder asks. He knows he hasn’t; he doesn’t make a habit of rehashing war stories with his children, not when the nightmares sometimes still plague him at night. But this seems like something his son might need to hear. “It was in France, right after I met your mother. I’d seen other killings before… you know about my sister, how I saw her die… and I’d seen my unit execute civilians more than once… but this was different, somehow. Probably because the night before, I’d had dinner with this little girl, her sister, and her parents.” Will frowns, but still doesn’t look at him. “They were staying at your grandmother’s farm. They were Jews, in hiding, but I didn’t know that at the time. Your mother told me the father was one of your grandmother’s farm hands. I sat down to dinner with them, in my German uniform, and they were so terrified, they didn’t say a word to me all night. And then… the next morning… they were caught, stood up in front of all of us, and shot.” William shudders and ducks his head. “And the little girl, Will… she spied me in the crowd and she looked right at me. I could see her face, I could see her eyes, I could practically hear her begging me to save her… and I did nothing. There was nothing I _could_ do. And after it was over… I broke down, Will. Not right then and there- my captain, I’ve told you about him, a man called-”

“Walther,” says William. “He was a friend of you and Mom. You named me William Walter, after him.” Mulder nods.

“That’s right. He was with the Resistance, though I didn’t know it until then. He took me to your mother, and I completely broke down in her arms. She had to tuck me into bed like a child, Will, and take care of me.” William risks a quick glance at his father, whose face shows nothing but love and compassion. “There’s no shame in going through what you’re going through, Will,” Mulder says. “It’s not about being strong, it’s not about being brave, and I don’t care what your Uncle Bill says, it’s not about being a good soldier. There are some things our minds just aren’t equipped to handle. Some things are too big, too terrible, to leave behind and forget about.” Will wavers a moment longer, clenching his jaw, trying desperately to hold it in… until finally, he cannot. He slumps onto his father’s shoulder and allows the tears to come… and after, the words. He lets them out, the entire awful story, purging himself of it as though ridding himself of a deadly poison. And after, he is completely empty… but somehow lighter.

It will not get better overnight. Wounds such as this are not stitched up immediately. William- and his family- will have a long and difficult road ahead of them.

But Mulder can promise William this much: eventually, one day, it will get better. It has for Mulder, it has for Scully, and it will for their son.


End file.
